Sherlock Holmes is a Great Man
by Samuel MacIntyre
Summary: ... And someday he might even be a good one. Sherlock has a secret that he can't even tell John. Established John/Sherlock relationship. M for future chapters and warning for FtM!Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay. This is one of my much, MUCH more out there stories. I recently read a story centered around Reid/Morgan from Criminal Minds featuring Reid as a FtM that was incredibly well done, and it got me thinking. Both MGG and B. Cumberbatch are slender, frail, rather ethereal looking, and if Reid could be an FtM then why couldn't Sherlock? The story that I've referenced is called 'Wonderment', and it is on this site if you choose to read it. I recommend it highly if you are a Reid/Morgan shipper.**

**But, on to the story. There is an established John/Sherlock romance, but obviously Sherlock's physical gender has not come into question. For the sake of the story, Sherlock will be referred to as 'he'. He has taken the hormone treatments but has not had any surgeries. I am giving you this time to back out now in case any of the following bother you: Transgendered characters, light bondage, and the inclusion of toys.**

**Last chance...**

**Oh, you haven't run away yet? Good. Let's get on with the show, then. Let's begin in Watson's mind.**

* * *

><p>There was one thing that no one ever did, and that was question Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock said something had happened, or would happen, or that this was the way things were, people believed him. Maybe that was because Sherlock always made people think he was right. And maybe that was because people wanted something to believe in.<p>

...

One way or another, no one questioned Sherlock. And far be it from me to do the same thing. So when Sherlock told me, several months after we had gotten together, that he was very much uncomfortable taking his clothes off in front of me I let it go. He had been uncomfortable from the start, I knew, and it had taken me almost a month just to get him to sleep in the same bed with me. He had had no problem with kissing, no problem with cuddling with me on the couch, and after that first month he had no problem with sleeping in my bed with me.

Don't get me wrong. I loved going to bed with Sherlock, having him spooned up behind me with one arm slung over me and his slim legs fitted between mine. He felt nice, he smelled nice, and he seemed to very much like having his big hands splayed out over as much of me as he could reach. It took months before he was willing to touch... Really willing to touch, I mean, to have his hands wrapped around me, bringing me to the edge before with a final rumbling murmur against my ear he sent me over.

It was well worth the wait, however, and seeing the soft smile on his face when I went slack in his arms made it even more worth it. However, one thing bothered me about all this... Even after I went limp against his chest and he had taken his hand out of my pants, there was never any answering hardness against my backside.

I suppose I couldn't complain. Sherlock had told me from the beginning that he was married to his work. The fact that he was willing to sleep in my bed with me, willing to touch me... Well, it was really more than I had hoped for when Sherlock had first confronted me about my feelings.

And that was the thing about Sherlock... He confronted me. I didn't go to him with declarations of love and how much I wanted him. He came to me, sat me down at Antonio's down the block, and told me very calmly over pasta and red wine that I was in love with him and he had no objections, because he was quite fond of me as well. I had promptly dropped my dinner into my lap and followed it with a knocked over glass of wine, much to Sherlock's amusement.

That night had been the first night that Sherlock and I had shared the couch, him sitting with his back against my chest and one of my arms loosely around his waist. I had fallen asleep like that, and woken to Sherlock sitting in the armchair across the room and watching me over steepled fingers.

That wasn't the first time I'd woken up to that, but it made me think that maybe I'd dreamed the night before. Being greeted with a fond 'Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?' dispelled that notion. So did the smile he gave me when I told him I'd slept just fine.

It wasn't long before Sherlock had another case that sent him halfway across the country in pursuit of a stolen ruby the size of his fist. He left me at home for that one, since I was busy with the clinic and it wasn't a particularly dangerous case. Well, not particularly dangerous in that Sherlock only came home with a few minor bruises and a slightly sprained wrist. He let me patch him up and promptly curled up on the couch with me, as usual with his back to my chest and his head tucked under my chin. That was the first night that I woke up with the world's only consulting detective actually nestled up against me instead of sitting in a chair across the room, watching me with those unnerving eyes of his.

Not that he stayed there very long... And I'm certain he wasn't asleep, because the moment I woke up he shot off the couch and retreated to his chair.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So, within a couple hours of my posting the first chapter of this I had gotten one story alert and one favourite author. It's little things like that that encourage me to keep going and feed my twisted little imagination.**

**Also, if you feel like reviewing please do! Any feedback, even the rude stuff, is welcome. Remember, reviews are like candy for fanfiction writers. Even if they're sour candies sometimes...**

I had no doubt that Sherlock was attracted to me. I may not have been... Well, Sherlock, but even I could see the way he looked at me. I was pretty sure no one else noticed, even when he shot me those looks over various dead bodies or when we had ducked into an alleyway as some criminal or another ran past where we were hiding.

Some of those hiding places involved me being flattened between him and the wall, enveloped by his coat and his body until the threat had passed.

Of course, it would be one of those moments, flattened against a filthy brick wall with Sherlock practically surrounding me that I brought it up.

It was hard not to. He was flattened hard against my chest, one arm resting on the wall just beside my head and the hand on his other arm gripping my side. I could barely make out his profile; the only light I had to see him by was the streetlight at the head of the alley. He watched the street for a few long moments, a few moments of an almost unbearable closeness that admittedly left me breathless.

This was... I'd say six months into our relationship, when the memories of Moriarty and the pool incident were just starting to recede from my mind and the forefront of my dreams. Helped by Sherlock, of course, I really can't leave that out.

When he turned back from watching the street I hooked both hands behind his neck and pulled him down to me, kissing him soundly on the mouth. He made a startled sound against my lips but kissed back and pressed me harder against the wall. The setting was a bit of a turnoff; how many people could say that they genuinely _enjoyed_ being flattened against the wall of a filthy London alley? But then, this was Sherlock that was doing the flattening, _my_ Sherlock, who was all lean lines under his shirt and trousers. Those lean lines were what had me perking to attention, my arousal pressing hard into his thigh. He had to notice; he wasn't that oblivious to me.

Well, most of him wasn't oblivious to me. I knew Sherlock was human; I had seen him eat, walked in on him fast asleep in his armchair or slumped over my laptop, even seen a flash of pain in his eyes when Moriarty had me strapped into that explosive vest. But this... C'mon, really?

"Sherlock..." Damn, now was not a good time to be this breathless.

"Yes, John?" He leaned his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my face, and it was all I could do not to pull him down into another greedy kiss. He ran a hand down my hip and slid it into the small of my back, pulling me flush against him.

I made a helpless little sound but pushed him back a bit so I could look him in the eye. "Sherlock, is your prick the only part of you that isn't human? Because in the six months that we've been-"

He clamped a hand over my mouth to silence me, silver-grey eyes suddenly hard. "We can talk when we get back to the flat. Now shut up." He jerked his head toward the street to where the two thugs that had chased us down were coming back up the road. I didn't appreciate the hand over my mouth and I bit his fingers to tell him as much, but the hand didn't come off my mouth until well after the thugs had passed.

The moment had passed as well, and Sherlock pulled his coat around him and left the alley without so much as a backward glance at me. He didn't even wait for me to get in the cab that he hailed and I was left to find my own way back to 221B.

He was sitting in his chair with his violin when I finally stomped up the seventeen steps to the flat, loud enough that Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her sitting room downstairs. He plunked out a few discordant notes, letting me hang up my coat and kick my shoes off in a huff before he even lifted his head. His eyes followed me as I walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard out of habit. After a moment, I put one mug back. That insufferable prat could get his own tea.

He was still sitting with his violin when I came back with my tea. He put the instrument down and looked toward the kitchen, then back to me.

"Don't I get a cup of tea?"

"You abandoned me to find my own way back to the flat. No, Sherlock, you don't get a cup of tea," I huffed, sipping at mine with as much of a bitterly triumphant smile as I could manage.

"I thought you would be disinclined to share a cab with me, given that you'd just tried to bite one of my fingers entirely in half." He steepled his fingers and watched me over his fingertips, his eyes bright.

"You clapped a hand over my mouth and told me to shut up! I was angry, that doesn't mean I wanted you to leave me behind!" I set my teacup down with a slight thump, sloshing hot tea onto my thumb and making myself curse. "You really are insufferable, Sherlock," I muttered.

He watched me closely over his fingers, his eyes narrowed a bit. I looked away, refusing to meet his eyes when he was like this. It felt like he was picking me apart like a particularly difficult puzzle.

He must have sat there like a statue for close to twenty minutes, enough time for my tea (and my temper) to cool. In all that time, I think he might have blinked once or twice, but no more than that.

"It really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"What- Yes, Sherlock, it bothers me. I have never once seen you aroused in the six months I've been dating you." I threw up my hands in frustration, well aware of how ridiculous I sounded. "And don't pull out that asexual and married to your work story again. I'm sick of it." Pushing myself off the couch, I stomped toward the stairs.

"John..."

"Save it, Sherlock. I'm going to bed."

I slammed the door behind me on my way to bed, and I'm pretty sure that downstairs, Sherlock winced at the sound.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I am getting an utterly overwhelming response to this story. I am thankful and amazed that you all have such high opinions of my writing. So, to reward you, here's a longer chapter with some high emotions and angsty!John.**

Sherlock was still sitting in his armchair when I came downstairs in the morning. I felt rather terrible for yelling at him the way I had last night, and I meant to tell him so.

"Sherlock..." I padded up behind his armchair, resting a hand on his tousled curls. He jerked away from the touch in surprise, turning to stare at me over the back of the chair. "Good morning," I offered, lifting an eyebrow at the startled expression on his face.

"Good morning," he replied, almost coldly, then turned his back on me again. Sighing, I shook my head and padded to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. If he was determined to be so childish then he could get his own tea. I had just put the kettle on the stove when a long hand seized my arm and turned me around. Sherlock thrust a slip of laminated paper into my hand, turned on his heel, and paced out of the kitchen again.

The slip of paper happened to be a birth certificate. The name on it, in somewhat smudged block letters, was "Shyla Morganna Holmes". The birthday was the same as Sherlock's, right down to the day of the week. For a moment I thought I was being offered proof of a lost twin sister that had passed away when she was very young, but neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever mentioned a sister. Sighing and forgetting about the kettle and my tea, I made my way back into the living room.

"Sherlock, what is this?" He had retreated to his armchair again, facing the fire with his back to the kitchen. All I could see over the back of the chair was the top of his curly mop of hair.

"A birth certificate," came the soft reply. The leather of Sherlock's armchair creaked as he shifted his weight.

I snorted, folding my arms. "Well, I can see that. Whose birth certificate _is_ it?"

"Mine."

I stared dumbly at the back of Sherlock's chair. Somehow, that hadn't occurred to me. "Sherlock?"

"It's my birth certificate, John. Why don't you take some time to absorb that and I'll go see what Lestrade has for me at the Yard." In the time I had been in the kitchen he had fetched his coat and scarf and shoes, and now before I could speak he swept out of the flat and down the stairs.

I sank onto the couch, all thoughts of tea abandoned. Something in me wished he hadn't told me quite so... Abruptly. On the other hand, it was my fault for bringing it up last night, and still another part of me was glad that he was so straightforward about it. I held the birth certificate between my fingers and stared down at it, studying the name. _Shyla Morganna Holmes_... It seemed like Sherlock's parents' fondness for unique names went toward the female children to. Female... Sherlock was a woman.

I tossed the certificate onto the table and pushed my hands into my hair. Well, that explained a lot of things, didn't it? Why Sherlock was so reluctant to undress around me, why I never felt anything against me when I was arching against him... Sherlock was female, at least physically. Mentally, I suppose, Sherlock was very much male. So much so that I had never even had a reason to call his gender into question before now.

I flicked my eyes to the certificate on the coffee table and sighed again. I really could use a cup of tea... The kettle had been whistling for a few minutes now, already boiling, and it was a simple matter to pour some into a cup on top of a teabag. I cradled it in both hands and stared into it, waiting for it to steep to a drinkable strength.

"Shyla Morganna Holmes..." The name didn't have the same ring to it as Sherlock Holmes did. I could see why he picked it over "Shyla".

I gave myself a little shake. No, there wasn't any sense in thinking of Sherlock as Shyla. That's not who I met, who I moved in with, and who I subsequently fell for. It was Sherlock, the utterly brilliant and utterly infuriating man that had created the position of 'Consulting Detective for Scotland Yard', that I had met, moved in with, and who I subsequently fell for. I had to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock... My Sherlock... Used to be a woman.

I had left my phone on the table out in the living room and I could hear it vibrating against the wood. Taking my tea with me and sighing quietly, I fetched it and glanced at the screen. _I hope my brother isn't being too much trouble. Would you like to have a bit of breakfast down the street? You seem like you could use a talk. - MH._

I stared at the phone for a moment before setting down my tea and sliding the keyboard out. _I'd love some breakfast. Just let me get dressed and showered. I'll meet you at the corner cafe in half an hour. - JW._

I didn't wait for a reply, since Mycroft probably wouldn't bother with one. Of course he knew that Sherlock and I had had a row; it was Mycroft, and I was convinced that he had the place bugged.

One shower, one change of clothes, and one pair of shoes later I found myself down at the cafe on the corner, sitting at a small wrought-iron table with Sherlock's elder brother sitting across from me. His ever-present umbrella rested against his knee and he was watching me quietly over a cup of decaf coffee. We had been sitting there for ten minutes already and neither of us had said a thing.

He finally set his coffee cup down and folded his hands together. I could see where Sherlock got his 'thinking pose'.

"So everything's come out into the daylight, has it? You know my little brother's big secret."

My breakfast sat untouched in front of me, but I nodded. "Yeah." Mycroft watched me over his knuckles, his eyes boring into my face. "Would you stop staring at me? Just because I found out about Sherlock doesn't mean I'm going to explode."

"Now that you know, do you want out of this? He would let you go, you know. He doesn't want you to be forced into something that you're not sure of."

I stared down at my breakfast, finally picking up a slice of buttered toast and smearing it with a bit of raspberry jam. "He'd be devastated if I left him. Not necessarily because of this, but for any reason. I can't knowingly do that to him."

"It's good that you're devoted to him, John, but this is something that most couples don't have to go through. Keep in mind how difficult it will be for you to overcome this mental hurdle." I stared at him, cursing his expressionless face.

"I fell for Sherlock, not Shyla."

Mycroft nodded like he understood completely, and I glared at him from across the table. He couldn't know what I felt like right now. I rather felt like Sherlock had punched me in the stomach with a weighted boxing glove on just before he'd swept out of the flat that morning.

My phone vibrated against my thigh and distracted me from Mycroft's steely gaze. Pulling it out of my pocket, I stared down at the screen. _I came home and you weren't there. Care to explain, Dr Watson? - SH._

I rolled my eyes and thought about shoving the phone back into my pocket, but I held a finger up to Mycroft instead and tapped out a quick reply. _I'm having breakfast with your brother. I'll be home soon, don't panic. Please stay in the flat, we need to talk when I come home. - JW._

_Talk? About what? John, don't toy with me like that. I need you to come home - SH._ The reply came almost immediately but I tucked the phone back into my pocket and left it there. Sherlock could do with some time to stew over what he'd dumped on me this morning.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, and I nodded as I tucked into my breakfast. Knowing that he was at home safe instead of running all across London made me feel a little better about taking this time to have breakfast.

I finished my toast and brushed my fingers off on my napkin, pulling it off my lap and leaving it on the table. "I suppose I should be going. What do I owe you for the breakfast?" He waved off my attempts to pay, still nursing his own cup of coffee. "Right... Well, have a good morning." I offered him a little wave as I made my way back down the street to the flat. I made sure to shut the door of 221 behind me loud enough that Sherlock would be sure to hear it shut before coming up the stairs.

Sherlock was pacing the flat, still in his coat with his hands behind his back. He gave a start when I came in, coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the floor. For a moment we just stared at each other over the coffee table. Then he stepped over it and stopped immediately in front of me, almost close enough that my chest would touch his if I breathed in deeply.

"John..."

"You're utterly daft, do you know that?"

He raised both eyebrows at me before a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Reaching up, I tangled my hands into his curls and pulled him down to kiss me. He made a soft, startled sound against my mouth before I let him straighten up.

"You're not angry with me, then?"

"Only a little bit, Sherlock... Only a little bit."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: With all the angst and drama of the last three chapters, I think it's time for a little fluff and romance. So I'm sorry for all of you with sensitive teeth, this chapter's going to be sickly sweet.**

I kept my distance from Sherlock for the next few days. He slept in his room and I slept in mine, even if we did still cuddle up on the couch to watch crap telly every night before bed. He knew that I was still coming to terms with the fact that my Sherlock was transgender, and he was still adjusting to the fact that it didn't bother me too much.

He finally started sleeping in my bed with me a week after he first told me about his secret, and I slept better that night than I had all the previous week. I woke up with him nuzzled into my old t-shirt, his long fingers curled into the worn fabric and his legs tucked firmly between mine. I let him sleep in that morning, since my waking up before him was just so rare. He only roused when Lestrade sent him a text and his BlackBerry nearly vibrated itself off my nightstand.

Things were easier after that. He still wouldn't undress in front of me, but he stopped sleeping in the one heavy sweater and pair of sweatpants he owned and started sleeping in one of my old t-shirts and a pair of thin pajama bottoms.

At some point after I found out about Sherlock, Mycroft came by the flat with a box of photo albums. Sherlock was out at the time, and I had been giving the carpet in the sitting room a much needed hoovering. The elder Holmes brother waved a hand in front of his face to clear away the imagined dust as he set the box down on one of the armchairs. Brushing my hand over my forehead I propped the vacuum against the back of the sofa and leaned next to it.

"Afternoon, Mycroft. What's in the box?" I gestured to it, flapping the front of my t-shirt a bit to cool off. Even with the windows at the far side of the flat wide open it was still stifling in the sitting room.

"Photo albums from when Sherlock and I were boys." He glanced around the dusty, momentarily rearranged flat, looking as prim and proper and out of place as always. "I thought you might like to see them."

"Oh, good. Yeah, I'd like to see what Sherlock was like as a kid." I had a mental image of a gangly, skinny child, all elbows and knees and messy curls. "Do you need anything else? I was hoping to get this place rearranged before Sherlock comes home."

"Of course... No, the photo albums were all I wanted to drop off. Have a good afternoon, John." And with that he left. If all he wanted to do was drop off a box of old photo albums I didn't see why he couldn't just have just sent Anthea or one of his drivers...

By the time Sherlock came home I had the flat back in order and was settling in with a book and a cup of warm tea. He swept in looking rather frustrated and bored, flinging his coat over the back of my armchair. Most of it landed on my head, nearly knocking my tea out of my hand.

"Something the matter, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade is an insufferable prat and I hate Anderson. Is the water in the kettle still hot?"

"Ah. So nothing out of the ordinary." I lifted his coat off my head and hung it on its peg behind the door. "Yes, the water should still be hot. I made myself a cuppa not all that long ago."

I hadn't noticed when he left the house but he was wearing that plum coloured shirt of his, the one that always seemed to look like the buttons on the chest were going to pop open. They never did, much to my chagrin, but a man could have dreams.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen again with a cup of tea nestled between his hands. I settled on the couch with my back against the arm, and to my surprise he padded over, nudged my legs apart, and sat between them with his back to my chest. His head tipped back against my shoulder and he sighed, his breath warm on my cheek and my jawline. "They're all idiots, John."

"I know."

"Anderson especially. He has the IQ of the average turnip and he just thinks he's so _clever_. It's infuriating."

"I know."

"Not that Donovan is that much better. His attitude must be seeping into her by osmosis every time they have sex. I don't think that's possible but it would explain her attitude." He sipped at his tea, glowering at the ceiling over our heads.

"That's pretty far out, even for you." I rested a hand on his stomach, my fingers slipping through the gaps between the buttons on that gorgeous plum-coloured shirt.

"Yes, well, at the time it seemed like a reasonable explanation for their similar behaviours." He heaved another gusty sigh and I felt the muscles of his stomach tense and relax under my fingers.

I chuckled and pressed a kiss to the corner of his cheekbone. That was about the only part of his face I could reach, but it still made him relax under my hand and against my chest. "Well, people do pick up on their partner's habits after a while. Just like old couples start to dress like each other and owners start to look like their pets."

Sherlock snorted and turned to look at me. "You don't seriously believe that poor excuse for fake science, do you?" His offended expression was so utterly comical that I had to chuckle at him.

"No, but it's an entertaining thought, isn't it?" I shifted the hand on his stomach, and he seemed to realize that my fingers were touching bare skin for the first time. He stared down at my hand in something like shock, as though it were a foreign animal on his stomach. "Do you want to move my hand?"

"Surprisingly, no. It feels nice."

I smiled and pressed another kiss on his sharp cheekbone before something occurred to me. "Oh! I almost forgot! Your brother came by with a stack of photo albums for you and I. He said they were from when you were kids."

Sherlock stared at me with such wide eyes that I had to smother another laugh. "Where are they," he asked finally, looking around the flat as though expecting them to leap out of the corner and attack us.

"I put them in the closet... I was cleaning the flat and they were in the way." Sherlock put his now empty teacup down on the coffee table and practically leaped out of my lap to fetch the box. Even if the carpet was still freshly hoovered the thud of the box hitting the floor raised a puff of dust.

He settled back against me with one of the leather-bound albums, propping it up on his bent knees and tipping it open. Curly golden letters across the first creamy page proclaimed _Shyla Morganna' Holmes's Baby Album_ above a picture of a plump baby with a soft fuzz of dark hair. I couldn't help but smile at the picture. "You were such a cute baby, Sherlock."

"I was terribly fat." He traced one of the baby's hands with a finger. He flipped the page, and I saw a very young Mycroft peering over the edge of a lacy bassinet with a disgruntled expression on his face. The elder Holmes brother had been a rather pinch-faced little child with slightly sunken cheeks.

"Mycroft looks like a skeleton!"

"Yes, he thickened up quite a lot. He ran around a lot as a child... He looks quite neglected here, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he does."

Sherlock kept thumbing through the pages. I watched him grow from a chubby, chortling baby to a slender child of seven years old. Seven years of Sherlock's childhood were contained in those pages.

Mrs Holmes seemed to have a fondness for dresses on her daughter; many of the pictures of Shyla showed her in one or another clearly designer dress. Sherlock set the photo album aside and plucked another one out of the box. This one showed Shyla as more of an academic achiever than anything else. Wearing a grey sleeveless jumper over a truly horrid maroon button up shirt and black tie holding a trophy for debate club. That uniform seemed to feature in a lot of uniforms; Shyla holding a trophy for public speaking, for creative writing, a plaque for leadership and academic achievement.

The pictures seemed to change after that, a bit. Shyla cut her hair around the time she turned thirteen, cutting her cascades of dark curls off well above her shoulders.

The theme of the awards changed after that. One picture showed Shyla in grass stains and clutching a tattered-looking football with a grinning Mycroft (still very pinch-faced at seventeen) at her shoulder in a coach's uniform. Another showed Shyla in full show-jumping garb astride a bay horse with a trophy in one hand and a smug looking Mycroft standing by her knee.

Mycroft's presence faded out of the photos after a while. Shyla seemed to remain athletic and sporty until well into high school and well into the fourth photo album we looked at. The pictures after that point came less and less frequently, stopping entirely with a photo of Shyla at her college graduation.

Sherlock closed the photo album quietly and looked up at me. "I kept out of contact with Mummy after that. She took the fact that I... Didn't feel right in my body much harder than Mycroft did. She's reconciled herself now, though..."

I rested my cheek against his curls and gently took the photo album out of his hands. "Well, at least she didn't disown you completely."

"No, I'm still very much in her will and she still thinks of me as her precious Shyla... Sherlock now, I suppose."

"Well, you're certainly precious enough for me." I kissed the sharp edge of his cheekbone again and he turned his head to look at me.

"Thank you, John..."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I would have liked to have a new chapter up sooner than this, but I've had a bit of personal drama to deal with. I plan to have this story come to a decent resolution before it reaches ten chapters; I'll be sure to post something at the end of the final chapter so you can all take it off Alert. For now, here's the latest instalment of this story.**

Sherlock made a point of pulling out one photo album a week for the next little while. Most of the other albums featured Mycroft more prominently, but there were only a few pictures of Sherlock's mum. From what I saw of her she was a pretty woman, with a touch of grey in her hair and Sherlock's sharply pale eyes. She and Sherlock didn't seem to be too close to each other, at least not in the photos that I saw, but at least she was friendly.

Sherlock got steadily more and more comfortable around me as the weeks progressed. He seemed surprised when my fingers slipped between the buttons of his shirt the first time when we were cuddling on the couch.

His skin was surprisingly soft under his shirt, and I could feel the rise and fall of the taut muscles just below his breastbone as he breathed. For a while he stared at my hand like it was a strange animal resting on his stomach, like it was about to turn around and attack him. His breathing slowed a bit as he watched my fingers, obviously waiting for them to do something else.

"Do you want me to stop," I asked quietly, leaning my cheek against his curls.

"No... No, it's alright. You just startled me." His attention turned back to the laptop propped on his knees. My laptop, of course, but Sherlock used it often enough that at that point it didn't really matter. We sat like this for a while, with two of my fingers between the buttons of his shirt, and Sherlock didn't move away. That was a start, I supposed.

Sometime later I decided I needed a cup of tea. When I pulled my hand away to give Sherlock's shoulder a tap to tell him I needed to get up, the button above where my fingers had been popped open. He stared down at it in something like consternation, as though cursing it for slipping open. I was fully expecting that button to be done back up when I came back into the living room with my cup of tea, but it wasn't. I set my hand back on Sherlock's stomach, my fingers between the buttons of his shirt once again.

From that point on, it just became accepted that every so often, one or another of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt would come open while we were cuddling. And every so often more than one would pop and I'd catch a glimpse of pale skin between the front halves of whatever shirt he was wearing. It also became accepted that if we were cuddling and I had the opportunity, I'd have my fingers between the buttons of his shirt. This, of course, took months longer than it should have. We were always being interrupted by cases, and one of Sherlock's mad adventures took us to America once, where we spent several weeks holed up in a tiny hotel with only Lestrade and each other for company. I'm still not sure why Lestrade came along, but he did, and I think all of us regret that incident.

In any case, I had been dating Sherlock for close to eight months and still hadn't seen more than a peek of skin.

And, like any normal man I was incredibly frustrated. I knew Sherlock wasn't hiding anything terrible under his button up shirts and scarves. Sure, if he'd had the reconstructive surgery on his torso there would be a few scars, but scars were nothing to me. It'd be terribly rude of me to be concerned with _scars_ on someone else given my own marks. Unless Sherlock had some sort of bizarre, obscene tattoo that he wasn't telling me about I couldn't imagine that there'd be anything there to hide from me.

I finally got the nerve to bring it up with him. The last time I had confronted him about something that bothered me he had dropped a bombshell right in my lap. I guess there wasn't much left for him to drop on me at this point, but I was wary anyway.

"Sherlock?" I finally spoke up as we were getting ready for bed one night; he was changing in the bathroom just off my bedroom, of course.

"Yes, John," came the muffled reply through the bathroom door.

"Well, it's been eight months since we became a couple..."

"I'm aware of the time, John." He padded out of the bathroom, smoothing the front of his shirt over his stomach. "Do you have a point to reminding me of how long we've been together?"

I watched him for a moment, watched the slight 'everyone's an idiot except me' grimace tug at the corner of his mouth when I didn't say anything. "I do, actually. And stop staring at me like an idiot."

"Alright, I'll stop staring at you like you're an idiot."

He started staring at me like I'd gone mad instead. I rolled my eyes and patted the bed next to me, waiting until he sat down to speak. "I've been dating you for eight months, Sherlock. You've seen me in nothing but my skivvies hundreds of times, and in less than that at least a dozen." A bit of colour rose to his cheeks at that but I kept talking before he could break in. "I haven't even seen you with your shirt off. I could understand before, because I didn't know about you being transgender, but I know now. Sherlock, even if you have scars from your surgery-"

"I didn't have the surgery. I didn't need it. After the hormone treatments I was satisfied enough with the results not to brave the surgery to reconstruct my torso."

"Okay, so you don't have scars. That's good." I took one of his hands and linked our fingers together. He stared down at them with his usual stunned expression. "So let me see. If there's no marks, no scars... Let me see what you look like, Sherlock. I won't touch, if you don't want me too, but it's not fair that you've seen me without a stitch on me and I only know what you look like above the neck."

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, as though he was seriously thinking it over. His eyes flicked over me as he thought about what I'd said.

"I suppose it would only be fair to let you see that... But you must promise not to touch me until I say it's alright."

I nodded. I couldn't believe he'd actually agreed to this... The hand that I was holding tugged out of my grasp as he stood up. At a little motion from him I scooted back on the bed, pulling my legs up so I could sit cross-legged on the bed. I had already turned off all the lights except the little lamp on my nightstand and the curtains were closed.

He stood there in silence for a few (utterly agonizing for me) minutes, where we just sort of stared at each other without saying a word. I tried to smile reassuringly but Sherlock just gave me an odd look, so I don't think it worked. His long fingers finally curled around the bottom hem of his t-shirt and he pulled it upward and off, slowly letting it drop to the floor.

I honestly didn't know what to expect when I asked him to take off his shirt and let me see him without it, but it certainly wasn't this. He was almost... Sculpted, for lack of a better word. In the dim light of my one little lamp he was all sharp shadows and warm golden planes. Not a lot of definition in his torso, but there was a definite 'V' where his hips met the rest of him. He looked like he was carved out of marble, but I knew for a fact that he was quite warm. I had spent enough time cuddled up to him to know.

I didn't realize how long I'd been staring at him until Sherlock cleared his throat. I jerked my eyes up from the lines of his hips to his face. He actually looked a little flushed, though I couldn't quite figure out why.

"Are you done staring, John? I'm cold and I'd like to come to bed."

"What? Oh, yeah, of course." I cleared my throat and scooted to the edge of the bed so I could get up. "Go ahead and put your shirt back on and come to bed, then." He stood behind me as I turned back the blankets. Much to my surprise, and though I'd never admit it to my delight, he crawled into bed without putting his shirt back on. I got in behind him and turned the blankets over us both, rolling over so my back was to him.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"You don't have to sleep with your back to me. I have no objection to sleeping the same way that we have for the past eight months." His voice was very small, almost shy, and muffled by the coverlet.

"Sherlock, it's okay. If you're not comfortable with me touching you yet-"

I felt the bed shift as he rolled over to face me. "Please, John?"

I smiled into my pillow for a second before rolling over, careful not to let him see it. Planting a kiss on his forehead, I let him roll over so that his back was to me again. Laying an arm over his waist I nuzzled into the back of his neck. He was tense against my chest for a while, but he relaxed as I stroked a hand lightly over his stomach.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John... And thank you."

"No problem, love. Now go to sleep."


End file.
